


We End Up Together

by Vrunka



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: ...or RE5, M/M, One Shot, Spoilers, if you haven't beat RE6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jill is dead. Chris is grieving. Piers is helping? Takes place between the events before RE5 and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We End Up Together

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before reading Piers' file in RE6 and I'm too stubborn to change my timeline. The BSAA is clearly hiring children. Clearly.

Chris is careful to never say that love jumped out the window. Fell. It’s always fell. Love fell out the window. Died on the rocks. Chris comes back to the states in a daze, distant and lost.

They tell him to take time off. Time to grieve. The loss of Jill must be terrible for him. Must be tearing him up. “Take a month,” they say.

Chris comes back after a week.

Chris starts drinking the day he gets back from Europe.

When it becomes a problem, the drinking not the grief, they give him more time off. No choice in it now. Almost house arrest. Chris can’t quite find it in him to be offended.

Piers comes to visit. Ernest and honest and open. Quick to temper. Jill always said it with quirked eyebrows and a smile. Piers looks wrecked and sad, broken as everyone thinks Chris is, standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame. He brings a bottle of wine, even though Chris is supposed to be living dry.

Chris lets him in.

“I miss her,” Piers says. It sounds more sincere than the other bullshit Chris has heard in the past weeks. Jill liked Piers. Chris had never been sold. He pops the cork on the bottle of wine and tosses it away without sniffing it. Serves it to Piers in a coffee mug because it’s the only thing he has.

Suddenly one glass of wine has become three. Four. The bottle is empty. Chris laments it. Piers talks through it. Looks at Chris with huge eyes when Chris presents the empty bottle.

“I’m glad she jumped,” Piers says, “She saved you.”

And Chris is drunk, so he says, “Everyone says my love jumped out the window. I never loved Jill, not like that. Not like anyone thinks.” He tips his empty cup, trying to get those last few drops from the bottom, and Piers stares until Chris adds an unnerved, “Maybe she felt that way. I don’t know.”

“We always know,” Piers says, “we just choose what to do with the knowledge.” He shrugs. Chris remembers Jill smiling at Piers, pointing him out to Chris at work. Piers was tough and cool, quick to temper. Too like Chris. Jill had drawn the parallel, Chris had hated Piers for it. Cool disdain. Warmth under it all. Under Piers too. Too like Chris.

“Are you talking about Jill or us?” Chris asks.

“I don’t know.” Piers is breathing, even. Up and down. He kept up with Chris, glass for glass. Mug for mug. No wonder the wine didn’t last long. “I do love you, I think.”

Chris wonders if he looked like that when he said it. That bright, vibrant gaze, hesitant and stubborn and brown. Piers’ eyes are more hazel than brown. Different than Chris. Different than Wesker.

It’s the only reason Chris can do it.

He wonders if he looked like this, utterly broken, when love did this same thing to him, tipped his chin back and kissed him, tasting wine. He wonders if he looked so intense when love dragged him into the bedroom and pinned him to the wall. Chris has no lube, they never had lube it seemed, now is no different. Chris makes do. Piers doesn’t complain.

Not that he’s quiet. Quite the opposite. Piers is vocal in bed, groans Chris’ name. Shuddering around Chris’ fingers. Such a natural thing. Easiest in the world. Chris wonders if he was like this, so easy. So natural. He tries to stop drawing parallels and he can’t.

When Piers comes, he says Chris’ name. His first name. Calls him Chris, not captain or Redfield. Chris is surprised. Even more so when Piers kisses him and it’s open and soft. He wonders if he was like this. So obviously in love. He can’t bring himself to bite at the mouth below him, can’t make it possessive and hard. So Chris kisses back just as soft. Breathes into Piers’ hair when Piers lowers his head, wipes himself off. Pink with embarrassment, coming from just Chris’ fingers. Too like Chris. Somewhere in his head, in the past, Jill is smiling.

When Chris comes, he says nothing, just groans into Piers’ shoulder blades. Hushes and soothes Piers when Piers comes for a second time, clenching around Chris’ cock, sighing into the pillows.

In that moment Chris feels bad. Wishes he knew how to love something as honest and open as this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the past, Wesker is laughing. Chris pets at Piers, runs a hand over his spine, not as drunk as he would have liked. Piers turns, smiles gently.

“I should go,” Piers says and Chris doesn’t know why, but he wishes Piers wouldn’t. But Piers does.

He comes back the next night. And the next. Chris’ nights become Piers’. He always brings alcohol. He always seems so fucking sincere. So fragile even though he is sturdy. Wesker was always slighter than Chris, but it never bothered him. Wesker was on top, it had never mattered. Things are different with Piers. Chris holds him, infinitely gentle, so afraid to break him. Piers almost never spends the night, Chris loves the nights when he does. Likes waking up next to someone again, likes the rhythm of slow morning sex, of showering together. Kisses that taste like toothpaste or coffee instead of alcohol. Piers accepts all of this with a grin, but it doesn’t feel condescending like so many of Wesker’s did.

Africa happens. It’s sort of a blur.

Piers is waiting in the airport when the plane lands. He smiles at Jill, actually smiles, all dimpled edges. And then he hugs Chris. Right there in front of everyone, Sheva and Jill and Josh.

“We were so worried,” he says.

“We were only gone a week,” Chris says back. Embarrassed because Piers has yet to drop his hands from Chris’ shoulders.

“You don’t know the rumors we were hearing. Some of which were true.” Piers looks at Jill. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Jill smiles, but it is more at Chris than at Piers and in that moment, Chris knows she knows everything. Concerning he and Piers at least.

Piers goes home with Chris even though Chris tries to shake him. Uncomfortable with the intimacy, and how free Piers is with it. With Wesker, things were never like this. Never. It was all about secrecy with Wesker, all about how to slide by without being noticed. And now Wesker is dead. Absolutely dead.

Sometimes, Chris feels like Piers wants everyone to know about them. Especially at times like this.

“I don’t want you here tonight,” Chris says, facing Piers in the doorway.

Piers has no offering of liquor. Piers just frowns. “I’ve rarely stayed the night. I want to hear about it, that’s all.”

“You’ll read the report if they want you to. I’m not in the mood for storytelling.”

“Is everything we heard true?”

“I don’t know. I missed the rumors. A lot of stuff happened,” Chris says. Stepping back and letting Piers enter, contradicting his words, so tired of keeping everyone out that just for now, just this once, he’ll let someone in.

“I’m not an idiot,” Piers says, settling on Chris’ couch. He doesn’t take off his shoes. “I did a lot of research on Raccoon City. Wrote a paper about it in high school even.”

Chris looks down, sits next to Piers. “Research isn’t the same as being there.” Then, doing the math, he adds, “Christ, you’re so young.”

“Twenty-two,” Piers confirms. “That’s what? Three years younger than you were when Raccoon happened. When you met Albert Wesker.”

Chris stiffens.

“I told you, I’m not an idiot.” Piers bites his lip. “And you talk in your sleep sometimes.” Chris doesn’t answer, can’t answer. There is no accusation in the words, just simple knowing, not even a hint of condemnation. “You were lovers?”

“Something like that,” Chris mutters. “If monsters can love.”

“I think they can.”

“You didn’t know Wesker, don’t pander to me, Nivans.”

“I’m just going by what I see. What Jill has told me. She doesn’t know, about you two, I surmised it on my own. After seeing you so wrecked, hearing you talk about love and windows. I put it together then. So it’s true?”

“What?”

“That he came back from the dead again? That he had Jill under some drugged spell?”

“He’s dead now.”

Piers squints, frowning. “You’re sure this time?”

“Fuck you,” Chris says, layered in heat.

“You know what I mean. It’s why you wanted to be alone tonight? Grieving again?” Piers looks at his hands. “Must be difficult. At least you had an excuse last time. Well. More of a reason. I don’t doubt you love Jill.”

Chris sighs. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Confirming. You already know it,” Piers says. “And I. I meant what I had said. I love you. I want to be there for you. I’m not going to tell anyone about Wesker.”

“That sounds like blackmail.”

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“Even still, I wouldn’t care if you did. He’s dead this time. For sure. No backing out. No quick getaways.”

“How do you know?”

Chris considers Piers. Long and slow. The refrigerator in his kitchen clicks over and Chris wishes it was 1998 again. Wishes he were home in Raccoon City with no knowledge of the T-virus. Piers would have done well in S.T.A.R.S. Forest would have loved him. Barry too. He’d have been popular in the way Richard had been, young and bright-eyed and everyone’s son. Under everyone’s wing.

But Raccoon is ashes and worse. Raccoon is dead.

And they are here.

“I shot him,” Chris says simply. “With a rocket launcher. So did Sheva. From the helicopter. We. We shot him.”

Piers does not accuse him of overkill like Chris was so worried he would. Piers just nods and accepts it.

“So now you know,” Chris says, “is this your cue to go?”

“I’d rather stay. If that’s all right with you, Captain.”

“Don’t call me Capitan. I’m thinking about retiring.”

“No you aren’t. And you are my captain. I don’t care about Raccoon or Wesker or any of it. It changes nothing.”

“They’ll probably promote Jill above me. She’s better equipped to working with large groups,” Chris says.

Piers frowns. “That isn’t going to happen anytime soon. They know about the T-Virus. How she’s. How Jill is infected. A carrier. I don’t know. I overheard the board discussing her. They used a lot of medical jargon by the short version is they don’t know if she can be trusted.”

Chris stares, narrowing his eyes, gaze sharp along Piers’ skin. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“I’m not.” Piers shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. Don’t you know me by now?”

“Fucking someone doesn’t make you know them.”

“You’re the poster child for that sentiment,” Piers says with no heat. Eyes narrowed, studying Chris’ expression. “They took Jill away today. I don’t know where to.”

“When?”

“While you and Sheva were being debriefed.”

“And you did nothing to stop them?”

“What did you expect me to do? Throw myself in front of them? Cause a scene? I’d been eavesdropping, Captain,” Piers says, “I doubt they’d look too nicely on that.”

“I need to talk to Sheva.”

“She isn’t with the BSAA anymore, either,” Piers says. “I heard them talking about that too. With the African branch being dissolved, she’ll be let go. I don’t know if they’ve told her or not.”

Chris doesn’t know what to say. It’s like they’ve pulled the rug out from under him, only instead of just falling on his ass, Chris has fallen into a pit. And everything is flying past him. They are taking everyone away from him. Life is. First Wesker, now Jill and Sheva too. Chris needs to talk to Barry, suddenly, needs to hear the redhead’s voice, fatherly and strong, telling him to buck up. But Barry is in Canada and no one has heard from him in years.

“You should go,” Chris says finally.

“I’d rather stay.”

“Why?” Chris asks, studying Piers critically. His brownish red hair and hazel eyes, his rather perpetual frown. The care in his gaze, a gaze Chris can’t hold. He looks down at his lap.

“I don’t want you to do anything stupid. I don’t. I don’t know. I just. I want to stay with you tonight; that’s all.” It’s as ineloquent as Chris has heard Piers, who is usually so composed. “If you really don’t want me to, I’ll go.”

But Chris doesn’t want that.

So he drags Piers into the bedroom again and pushes him onto the bed. Doesn’t bother even taking Piers’ shoes off. Just jerks him off with steady, slow motions, kissing away the small hesitant lines around Piers’ mouth. It’s only after Piers comes the first time that Chris takes a step away from the bed and strips. Lets Piers do the same. It’s softer after that, gentle motions, gentle kisses. Piers breathes through it, comes in a sighed approximation of Chris’ name. And Chris wonders if this will ever get old, the amazement he feels when he considers how much Piers loves him, when he watches Piers orgasm with Chris’ name on his lips.

There is not much to say afterwards.

Chris curls around Piers and sleeps.

He dreams of abandonment and wakes up close to tears. He can’t remember the specifics, just remembers water and fear, metal. Chrysalid. Shock.

Piers is there, in the real world, when Chris jolts awake. He shushes him and holds Chris until his shaking stops. And Chris hates himself for that. Being comforted by a twenty-two year old, barely more than a child. But Piers just holds tighter when Chris tries to pull away. Surprisingly strong for someone so skinny.

“I’m here,” Piers whispers into Chris’ hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And it shouldn’t, but that phrase, that thought makes Chris feel unnerved all over again. Like he could scream and cry and vomit all at once. But it passes, it always passes, and eventually Chris calms down. Piers stays the night that night.

And the next night. The one after. Even when Chris tells him to go. Even when they don’t fuck. Piers stays. Chris has the nightmare on and off. He never remembers it all, just remembers feeling lost and alone at the end. Betrayed. Angry. Afraid. Piers is there sometimes. Sometimes he is not. Sometimes he looks like Wesker and is not Piers at all. Not really Wesker either. Someone else. Chris does not know. He always wakes up terrified. And Piers is always there. But one day he won’t be.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that. Chris/Piers is my ship of ships, I won't lie, and from what I can tell this is the first of it's kind here? Maybe? Anyway, if you liked it or have criticism feel free to let me know. Thanks so much.


End file.
